


Procrastination Nation

by miss_furniss



Category: Cable and Deadpool, Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Iron Fist (Comic), Power Man and Iron Fist (Comics)
Genre: AU, Feel-good, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porny fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 05:59:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7672777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_furniss/pseuds/miss_furniss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of idfics, written to relieve stress during study breaks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I love you, sandwich. Nate/Wade.

**Author's Note:**

> So I just SLAM-DUNKED finals week, and thought I would reward myself by posting porn on the internet.

 

 

            “Do you even _know_ how much I could get for a glamour shot of lil’ Cable? _Mucho dinero_ , Nate… deeeefinitely enough to make the blow to your pride worth it.” Wade reconsidered for a moment, tugging thoughtfully on Nate’s prick. He shrugged. “Not that you don’t have somethin’ to be proud of.”

            “Wade,” Nate warned, brow raised.

            “ _What_?! I’d split the proceeds with you, _obvs._ C’mon, Nate, a guy’s gotta eat.” Wade slurped messily on the head of Nate’s penis before bobbing back up. “Man cannot live on peen alone.”

            Nathan rolled his eyes. It was a little hard to be upset with somebody when they were kneeling on the floor, bracketed between your thighs. Nate wrapped his hand around the back of Wade’s head, fingers sliding smoothly on the Kevlar-polyester blend of Deadpool’s mask. Wade had rolled it up to the bridge of his nose, watching Nate through the suit’s cartoonish panda eyes.

            “For the last time, Wade: I’m never going to do porn.”

            Wade grinned wickedly. “ _Au contraire, mon frère_. You’ll never find my potty-cam,” he teased. It was a moment before he realized what he’d said. “Oh, _god_ dammit.”

            “Let me guess. It’s in the toilet.”

            “I _gave_ you that one, Priscilla,” Wade pouted. “’Sides, is it so bad that I wanna share a little bit of _this_ —“ he trailed the tip of his tongue up Nate’s frenulum, “—with the rest of the world? You got a beautiful piece, Nate.”

            Nate chuckled, deep in the back of his throat. “Actions speak louder than words.”

            “I dunno, there’s a lot of audio-visual nerds who might disagr—mmph!” Wade’s front teeth clicked against the T.O. mesh of Nate’s glans—Nate winced, but that didn’t stop him from forcing the merc’s mouth further down toward his lap.

            “…oo ashdrd…” Wade mumbled, but then closed his eyes contentedly. His palms planted themselves on Nate’s inner thighs, pushing them farther apart as Wade got down to business (if Wade’s business was not, say, ‘killing people,’ but rather ‘sucking Nathan Summers like a slurpee’).

            “What was that?” Nate smirked. He drew a measured, calming breath as his cock bumped along the ridges of Wade’s upper palate, the natural cool of his T.O. mesh beginning to heat as its sensors struggled to compile an overwhelming amount of external information.

            Wade hadn’t been kidding when he’d complimented Nate’s ‘piece’ ( _“So, Terminator… does that go **all** the way down?”_ Wade had once asked, early in their association). The techno-organic virus had eaten most of Nate’s left torso—neck, shoulder, arm and intercostals—but what most people didn’t know was that the contamination actually _did_ extend down into what Wade had occasionally referred to as Nate’s ‘fiddly bits.’ Truth be told, Nate’s feelings on the shiny stuff vacillated between ‘negative’ and ‘indifferent,’ depending on how useful it would be to have full use of his telekinesis on any given day. Wade’s feelings were distinctly more… enthusiastic.

            He took Nate deeper, down into his throat, and began to swallow around him; Wade’s throat contracted in rippling, peristaltic waves that had Nate suddenly grit his teeth, groaning. Nate’s thighs had gone rigid with muscular tension; Wade squeezed them playfully.

            Nate supposed he should feel lucky that he’d found one of the few things which would reliably shut Wade up for an extended period of time. Even silent, though, the man was absolutely _incorrigible_ : Wade found the raised tendril of mesh that ran along the dorsal side of Nate’s (otherwise fleshy, pink) penis, and scraped his teeth across it on the upstroke. Nate grunted his displeasure, squeezing a warning into the back of Wade’s neck, but he didn’t actually tell the man to _stop_. Pain was the cayenne pepper in the pea soup of sexuality, and besides, the mesh wasn’t even configured for pain in the way that a human body was supposed to be.

            Wade pulled off. “Let’s take this party someplace where we’ll be less likely to break my TV,” he said, drool stringing his face from mouth to chin. “I like you, Nate, but I _love_ my flat-screen.”

 

 

            Wade’s bedroom was as much a wreck as the rest of the apartment; Nate kicked half a Snickers and a shuriken underneath the bed before he felt Wade come up behind him. The merc slotted himself against Nate’s back, hands sneaking past the waistband of his briefs to pull ‘lil’ Cable’ back out into the air.

            “Well, _hello_ there…” Wade purred. It would’ve been sexy if he hadn’t also wiped his wet mouth on Nate’s undershirt. Wade wriggled his hips, pushing the hard line of his cock against Nate’s rear, and—

            “Weren’t you wearing your uniform a second ago?” Nate asked. Said uniform was fitted with a protective Kevlar codpiece. No matter _how_ aroused Wade was, it wouldn’t have been possible to feel that through the Deadpool suit.

            “Indeed I was!  But have you considered a career in motivational blowjobs?” Wade asked. His words were punctuated by a couple of rolling thrusts against the crack of Nate’s butt. “Because I was feeling _very_ motivated.”

            Nate smirked. “Fine by me.” He began to turn around in Wade’s grip. Before Nate could see any skin, though, Wade kicked the door shut with his heel, cutting off all of the light that’d lanced in from the hallway.

            “Nuh-uh,” Wade grunted.

            “Really?”

            Wade wrapped his arms around Nate’s neck, snuggling into the man’s broad chest. “Didn’t heal so pretty last time, babe. It’s in the dark or in the suit.” He cocked his head. “Or I could steal the giant panini costume off that poor kid on 4th street, if you’d rather.”

            “Thanks but no thanks. I’m not sure _who_ would want to make love to a sandwich.”

            “ _I_ might. Depends on the sandwich.” Wade leaned up and pecked a kiss against Nate’s lower lip. “And _you_ are a New York Steamer.”

            Nate opened his mouth and kissed Wade properly. “That doesn’t sound like a _good_ thing,” he muttered, between lip-locks.

            “Oh, it _is_. Provolone and pickle and spicy goddamn mustard and—“ Wade’s voice actually took on a little growl, getting off on a submarine sandwich. “So. Much. Fucking. _Meat_ ,” he groaned, jerking his naked cock against Nate’s hip.

            Nate laughed, and grabbed Wade by the ass, grinding them together. It was nice, for a while.... For a while, Wade just let Nate _hold_ him. Nate ran his hands over the muscular curve of Wade’s back, fingers skidding on the ridges and cracks of Wade’s scars. Nate could feel dampness in places—unhealed granulations—and did his best to avoid them. He dipped his head and kissed along the underside of Wade’s jaw. “Sounds like we’re ordering sandwiches later.”

            “Promises, promises.” Wade grabbed Nate by the hair, yanking him back up for a hard, sloppy kiss on the mouth. Then, while Nate was distracted—dizzied—Wade wriggled out of his arms and threw himself backward onto the bed. “Why don’t you deliver on _one_ before you go making any more, ‘kay?”

            “Oh?” Nate kicked off his briefs, cocking one hand on his hip as he smirked down at the hot mess that’d spayed itself out on the bed. “And what was the first one?”

            Wade threw his head back dramatically. “Fuck me like one of your French girls, Nate!”

            Nathan cocked his head. “You know I’ve got _no_ idea what you’re quoting, right?”

 

 

            Most people probably did not have a roll of duct tape in their bedside table (nestled against the lube, and the vibrator, and the Gideon’s Bible). Wade was not most people.

            Nate unspooled it around Wade’s wrists and forearms; he’d asked, of course, whether Wade wanted two loops or seven. Two loops, Wade could still break out of. Seven was a little trickier. Tonight, apparently, was a ‘seven’ sort of night. Nate strung out _ten_ loops of duct tape, just to be on the safe side.

            He’d done up Wade’s arms so they were bent at the elbow and crossed behind his back; when Nate tore off the roll and put it back into the bedside drawer, Wade flexed his arms experimentally.

            “…nice…” he murmured. “Though I can’t help but feel that my one weakness oughta come from someplace more exotic than Avon, Ohio. Kryptonite, this shit is _not_.”

            Nate planted a hand in the small of Wade’s back and shoved him down onto the Captain America sheets. Wade went down with a pleased little “oof,” then rolled onto his back. He beamed happily and poked at Nate’s chest with his toes: an odd development, not unlike most of Wade’s bedplay. Nate just went with it… until Wade began kicking him not-so-gently in the stomach. Nate grabbed Wade’s foot when the merc aimed a kick for Nate’s liver.

            “Do you _want_ me to get out the tape again?” Nate frowned.

            “Oh, _c’mon_ , Pansy Parkinson. Headline: Old Man No Longer Considers Rough-housing Valid Foreplay. Or were you just too busy playing freedom-fighter to ‘discover yourself’ during your time on the high-school wrestling team?”

            Nate arched an eyebrow, sliding his grip from Wade’s foot to his calf. “I value _finesse_ ,” he said, and dragged his T.O. fingertips along Wade’s inner thigh. They traced a teasing upward path from asshole to perineum to sac, where Nate’s hand paused. He massaged the hairless, incongruously smooth skin of Wade’s testicles, enjoying the way that the man had stilled beneath his touch. “Are you still going to fight me?”

            “Oooh, yeah.”

            Nate smirked. “Good.”

 

 

            Deadpool in bed was as variable as Deadpool in the field, moods shifting unpredictably. Sometimes aggressive, sometimes startlingly submissive. Usually, though, he was playful and pushy. ‘Topping from the bottom,’ Wade called it. Nate had decided a long time ago that ‘playful and pushy’ was something that he liked (a private decision of course. He couldn’t in good conscience _encourage_ Wade’s antics).

            Still, it was _so_ good to feel the man struggle against him: fighting to get closer, to drive Nate _deeper_. It was so good to hear Wade rasp a steady litany of barely-comprehensible nonsense, his head thrown back against Nate’s shoulder. For a while, Nate had fucked him on all fours, but then he’d just had to have _more_ : more skin-to-skin contact, more of Wade’s muscular bulk straining the cage of Nate’s arms.

            Nate had grabbed him by the hips and wrenched them both backward, Wade practically flailing into Nate’s lap. He yelped when gravity and momentum suddenly decided to team up for a dirty trick, impaling Wade on the last inch of Nate’s cock.

            “…holy… _shit-snacks_ … Nathan! Give a guy a warning!”

            Nate’s gravely groan became a chuckle. “…where’s the fun in that?” he asked. His hands tightened on Wade’s hips, jerking him downward until another bodyslyde accident would be the only way he could get deeper.

            “—nngh…” Wade tried to pump himself up and down, but Nate held him still. “Omigod. Omigod. Omigod, _Nate_ , you filthy fucking sack of rotting _dick_ -tips, just give it to me or _don’t_ , you _asshole_!”

            The duct tape around Wade’s wrists was scraping against Nate’s abs, the fabric of Wade’s mask against Nate’s jaw. “Mm.” He could feel the T.O. mesh of his glans—and of the single tendril that ran from glans to pubic bone—heating unnaturally, overwhelmed by sensory input.

            He knew that Wade could feel this from the inside; Nate had asked him, once, whether it was uncomfortable. Wade had instead described as ‘how it would feel if you swallowed a hot water bottle… and if then, instead of going to the ER, you let it work its way through your intestines, sooo… kinda nice?’ Here he had waggled his hand in the universal sign for ‘so-so.’

            It felt nice for _Nate_ , though: a feedback loop of heat that had Wade practically melting around him, feverishly warm and slick and so, so _tight_. If the T.O mesh had some sexual side-affects, so did Wade’s healing factor: they could fuck for a week and Wade would just tighten right back up, sweet as a virgin every single time. It frustrated Wade to no end; sometimes he’d prep with a plug, sometimes he’d forget. Sometimes he tried to rush Nate into the main-event, and sometimes he was patient, allowing Nate to stretch him out with T.O. fingers or the vibrator. Sometimes Wade did it himself, roughly.

            Nate took Wade’s earlobe between his teeth and pulled, breath hot against the shell. “Talk to me,” he rumbled. “Tell me what you feel.”

            Wade squirmed against his chest, clenching internally. “So _fucking_ full. I can’t—oh, jesus, _Nate_ —“ he whined, when Nathan finally began to stir his cock in slow, luxuriant circles.

            “What’s that?”

            “I can feel you in my fucking _guts_ , you... you overgrown Robocop- _ripoff_. Tell me when you find the carrot I lost up there when I was twelve.” He was heavy against Nate’s chest, finally gone relaxed and pliable; it was safe now, Nate figured, to let go of the man’s hips. He skimmed his palms up Wade’s uneven chest.

            Wade hadn’t been lying: the skin there _wasn’t_ pretty. Nate could tell that much from the map his hands were charting. His finger caught on the edge of an open sore—an unhealed carcinoma—and Wade shivered, momentarily. In the next moment, the sore was sealing over, the skin crawling beneath Nate’s fingertips. Another would take its place, Nate knew, elsewhere on Wade’s body. Small, self-generating wounds that shifted like the tide.

            “Cut it out,” Wade murmured. “You don’t have to do that.”

            “Do what?” Nate continued his exploration, brushing the pad of his thumb over Wade’s nipple, smoothing his palm over the rippling scars that sat atop Wade’s intercostals. “Touch you? Because I’ll tell you a secret: I love touching you.”

            “That’s no… that’s no _secret_ , Priscilla.” Wade gasped when Nate tweaked his nipple, hard. “That’s the problem with you telepaths: you forget that even us _normies_ can read _body-language_.”

             Nate ran his tongue along Wade’s neck, tasting sweat and gunpowder and plasma. “Well,” he growled, “then you’ll know that I find you fucking _fascinating_.” He thrust up to underline his point. Wade groaned, rolling back to meet him.

            “It’s cute, the way you still think you gotta sweet-talk me, when lil’ Cable’s already shoved halfway up my lower intestine. You wanna give a guy a break, here? C’mon, Nate, just _do_ me already,” he undulated in Nate’s lap, spine tracing an ‘s’ into the air. “Before I find somebody else who _will_.”

            “You wouldn’t.” Nate smiled.

            “Ha! I _knew_ overconfidence was a genetic trait. Tell that to your _da_ —nng—to your _dad_ , Summers.”

            Nate snorted. “If I bend you over, will you _never again_ mention my _father_ during intercourse?”

            “I’ll—“ Wade keened as Nate curled his fist around ‘el pequeno Deadpool,’ running his thumb along the slit. “—take it under advisement, and hey, never stop doing that, ‘kay? Thanks.”

            Nathan mouthed a kiss into the nape of Wade’s neck. “This?” He twisted his hand—the T.O. model, not incidentally—along the length of Wade’s cock, in a vaguely complicated down-up-and-around maneuver that Wade had first perfected on _him_.

            Nate’s hand warmed, metal ridges an unnatural 102 degrees against the velvety skin of Wade’s shaft; it was an identical reaction, he knew, to the traces of T.O. mesh on his penis. Hot outside and hot within, enveloping Wade like a fresh-drawn bath. Nathan felt Wade sigh against his chest, totally content.

            Something wasn’t right, though. Nate stilled his hand and felt Wade arch into his palm. “ _C’moooon_ , I was so close—“

            “Let me take off the mask.”

            Wade stiffened. “Maybe later, okay? We’ll play ‘Walking Dead,’ you can even be Daryl—“

            “Please.”

            Wade made a strangled noise of frustration, shoulders bunching as he visibly steeled himself. “Fine!” he spat, grinding himself angrily down onto Nate’s lap. “Fucking _fine_ , just… do it like a band-aid, alright?”

            Nate did _not_ do it like a band-aid. Instead, his palm scudded slow and firm between the man’s tense shoulderblades, up the nape of his neck, and up to cradle the swell of his skull. He pushed down while he did this—and Nate could exert a _lot_ of pressure when he felt like it—forcing Wade inexorably down toward the mattress. _Then_ —when he’d gotten Wade folded in half like a cherry turnover—then he slid his fingers underneath the mask.

            “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

            Wade mumbled something incomprehensible into the mattress.

            Nathan chuckled, letting Wade lift his head just long enough for Nate to peel away the mask and toss the empty face aside. He shoved Wade back down, hard enough that the man must’ve gotten a gagging mouthful of sheet, but Wade just waggled his ass happily. Nate shifted into a kneel and met him with one deep, rolling thrust.

            That was half the reason for the duct tape, really. Wade liked a quickie: liked a bit of ‘wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am’ that wouldn’t allow his partner time to rethink their decision to fuck _Deadpool_. Nate, though… Nate liked to take it slow. He liked to build himself a serene little island in the ocean of insanity that was his daily life.

            When they’d first started fucking, Wade would literally pounce on him, ride him until Nate had been drained like a Capri-Sun, and then bound away to wreak general havoc. Hence the duct-tape.

            It caught what little light there was to catch, shining dully as Wade’s muscular back shifted beneath Nate’s hand. He twisted, screwing himself onto Nate’s cock, and that was the other thing about Deadpool: he was not a man of moderation. He was always demanding for _more_ , always demanding for _bigger, brighter, bloodier, **harder**_.

            The thing about Cable was that _sometimes_ he had a heart. Sometimes he’d give Wade what he wanted.

            “You’re a ridiculous,” Nate grabbed Wade by both hips, groaning as he impaled the merc from stem to stern. “Infuriating… beautiful,” he began to move, and in an eyeblink his pace had gone from leisurely to punishing. “ _Mess_ ,” Nate concluded.

            Wade panted roughly; it was muffled by the mattress as he drooled a wet spot into the sheet. He fought back, meeting every thrust with an energetic snap of his hips: stuffed full and fucking _loving_ it. Nate squeezed his eyes shut tight, teeth gritted, relishing the friction and the heat and the perfect bubble of Wade’s ass as it squashed up against Nate’s lower abdominals.

            “…god _dammit_ , that’s good,” Nate grunted. Wade’s answering whine seemed to concur. “I’m not gonna… I’m not gonna last, fuck, _Wade_ —“ Nate reached around and fisted Wade’s cock, tugging hard enough that the thing ought to have popped off.

            He couldn’t keep a rhythm—Wade had told him more than once that Nate was ‘whiter than mayo on Wonderbread’—couldn’t stroke and shove in tandem, so he just jerked their hips together messily, so hard that the headboard slapped against the bedroom wall. Finally, when Nate was just about to give it up for a lost cause, he felt Wade’s cock twitch in his hand.

            “ ** _Fffuck!_** ” Wade’s spine arched as he yelled obscenities into the mattress, a full-body spasm that sent every muscle into a death-clench, resolving itself into a stranglehold on Nate’s shaft. Somewhere—in the part of his brain that hadn’t whited-out from the exquisite, impossible pleasure-pain of being buried in a body that was suddenly three sizes too small—Nate felt Wade’s seed on his hand, warm and viscous as it dripped onto the sheets.

            After he’d come, Wade went boneless as a ragdoll; Nate pulled out, still hard. “Roll over,” he asked hoarsely, and for once, Wade didn’t have the energy to argue.

            When Wade had flollomped gracelessly onto his back, Nate more or less _collapsed_ on top of him, pushing inside the warm, wet hole that still twitched gently in orgasmic aftershock. Wade wrapped his legs around Nate’s waist, and Cable rocked them together in the tidal pace that he liked best.

            Nate came noiselessly. Instead, he bit hard at the juncture of Wade’s neck and shoulder, tasting the sweet tang of meat and copper and salt. He crushed Wade in his arms, hips stuttering while Nate pushed himself as deep inside Wade’s body—Wade’s _brain_ —as he could possibly get. Filling him up. Nate stayed there, cock softening, until Wade began to jostle around beneath him.

            “…hey.” The merc’s rasp had gotten even rougher, as though he’d gargled gravel. “Hey. Buddy. I… I’m feelin’ the love, but… you know. Breathing’s fun, too.”

            “Hrm.” Nate slid himself free with a wet pop, then rolled onto his back. The bed actually _shook_ when he fell to the mattress.

            They lay there for a while, breathing hard. “Arms?” Wade asked, eventually.

            “Oh. Right.”

            Nate leaned over to rummage around inside the bedside table. In addition to the lubricant, vibrator, duct tape and the Gideon’s Bible, there was a truly beautiful serrated hunting blade (Wade had _countless_ knives, but this was the one to which he exclusively referred as a ‘ _knoife_.’

 _“A knife?”_ Nate had asked.

 _“No, no, no, a_ _knoife_ ,” Wade had repeated, in the worst Australian accent that Nate had ever heard).

            Wade rolled over, just enough for Nate to cut him free, then began to gleefully peel ribbons of tape from either arm. Nate put the knife away.

            Wade reached down between his own legs, free at last. “Oh my god,” he giggled, “I’m a motherfucking Twinkie!” When he lifted his hand, semen stretched in sticky, filmy strings between his fingers; he waggled them for Nate to see, then elbowed him in the side. “’Cause of the cream filling.”

            Nate lay back and smiled sleepily. “Thanks for ruining Hostess. Snack cakes _were_ one of my favorite things about this period.”

            “You’re welcome.” Wade rolled toward him, snuggling up along Nate’s side. He threw an arm and a leg overtop, caging him. The arm was still tacky with tape residue. “An old guy like you doesn’t need those empty calories, anyhow.” He poked Nate in the belly. “Hard enough maintaining that girlish figure as it is.”

            “Mm.” Nathan’s chest rumbled underneath Wade’s arm. It should’ve been disgusting—he could feel sweat and semen beginning to plaster them together, drying and cooling on their skin—but he was too sated, too incongruously _content_ to care. He reached over, aligning his arm with Wade’s own, wrapping his big T.O. paw around the merc’s elbow. “Shut up and get some sleep.”

            Wade raised one hairless browbone. “You don’t want a shower?”

            “Later.” The techno-organic mesh was cooling, returning to its resting temp, but Wade’s body was still a line of liquid heat. Nate melted into it, enjoying the weight of the man’s gnarled head on his shoulder.

            “And I seem to recall your saying something about sandwiches.”

            “Later,” Nate repeated. “I’m serious. Sleep first; there’ll be sandwiches.”

            “Mm.” Wade hummed into Nate’s skin, settling. “You’re gonna regret this when the sheets are stiff.”

            In moments, they’d both drifted off into a dreamless dark.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something about Deadpool makes me think in food metaphor, apparently.
> 
> I didn’t mean to, but I suppose that it makes sense: Deadpool’s got a canon junk food fixation. Maybe the healing factor skyrocketed his metabolism; maybe it’s simple pleasure-seeking behavior; maybe both.
> 
> Shout-out to Firehouse Subs and the New York Steamer. I love you, sandwich.


	2. Missed you.  Luke/Danny

         

 

            Luke swung open the front door and immediately got an armful; he stumbled backward with a grunt, Danny Rand’s arms wrapped around his neck.

            “Fuck.” Luke’s surprise turned quick to pleasure, and he hugged Danny hard, face smushed into the smaller man’s hair. “Wasn’t expecting you for at least another week.”

            Danny shrugged beneath Luke’s arm. “Talks went well. Saito-san was ready to deal.”

            “Well, I wish you’d said. I woulda picked you up at the airport.”

            “Then I would’ve had to wait for _this._ ” Danny pulled back and planted a kiss on Luke’s mouth, rough and to-the-point. “I know how you feel about PDA.”

            “Damn,” Luke grinned. They were still standing in the open doorway to his apartment, but he couldn’t help it. He grabbed Danny by the ass and picked him up as though he weighed absolutely nothing. Which wasn’t _true_ , incidentally: Danny was slight and short, okay, but he was also _dense_ with muscle.

            Luke could feel that in the steel trap of Danny’s legs as they wrapped themselves around Luke’s waist. “I might have to revise that policy,” Luke said. He walked them back and shut the door behind them.

            As soon as the door swung closed, Luke was grinding Danny up against it. Rand grabbed for the back of his neck and kissed him, open-mouthed and demanding.

            “So you missed me?” Danny laughed, nipping Luke’s lower lip as they pulled apart to breathe.

            “You got no idea. Lose that tie.” Luke freed up one hand to tug on the offending article.

            “Thought you liked me all cleaned up?”

            “Like you better messy.” Luke began to work the knot, supporting Danny with one hand. Between his own strength and the vise-grip of Danny’s thighs, Rand was going _nowhere._

            Danny ground himself down on Luke’s belly. “Mm. Sir, yes, _sir_.”

            They’d settled into something comfortable since they’d started having sex, something that wasn’t very different from what their partnership had been before; they were still mostly ‘fistfights’ and ‘high-fives’ and ‘exasperation’ and ‘bad diner food.’ It was just that—now, between those things—they were also ‘awkward stakeout blowjobs’ and ‘dirty sheets’ and ‘Luke waking to find Danny half-naked, doing tai-chi in his living room.’

            For all of the things that were _not_ new, however, Luke had come to appreciate the things that _were_. Like, for instance, the discovery that—in the bedroom—Danny liked a little fight, a little power-struggle, and—often as not—he liked to _lose_. Luke had come to realize that Danny liked getting tossed around, insofar as anybody ever actually _could_ toss him around. Misty had probably managed, Luke supposed. Danny did have a type.

            The knot undone, Luke dragged Danny’s tie out from around his collar—enjoying the slithering sound of it—and draped it neatly over the doorknob. Unlike _some_ people, Luke _respected_ nice clothes. “You do look good,” Luke admitted, “when you bother to dress like a grown-up.”

            “Pfft. Tell that to every vest you’ve ruined.” Danny squirmed impatiently, reaching up to begin unbuttoning his own collar. Luke smacked his hands away; Danny deflected him easily.

            “ _Hands_ , baby,” Luke warned.

            “Oh yeah? Then how about a little tit-for-tat, Cage?” Danny abandoned his own shirt and plucked suggestively at Luke’s thin cotton tee. “Let’s see some skin.”

            Luke chuckled, and obliged. He let Danny go—trusting his own weight and Rand’s legs around Luke’s waist to hold Danny in place—and grabbed his own t-shirt by the hem, pulling it up over his head in one smooth motion. “Better?”

            Danny’s smile said it all, really. “I missed you,” he blurted, and then he kissed Luke again, enthusiastically. Luke kissed back, a sloppy-slick slide that left him breathless. He reached back down to palm Danny’s ass, hoisting him higher, pressing him hard against the door, practically fucking Danny’s mouth with his tongue.

            “…missed you, too,” Luke said, between breaths. He started working Danny’s collar, his belt. He could feel Danny fumbling between them, unbuttoning Luke’s own jeans and shoving them down his hips until Luke stumbled.

            “Fuck me?” Danny asked. Luke groaned into his mouth.

            “Don’t just _say_ shit like that, Danny…” Luke felt the drag of his own underwear against his cock; he was already so hard, briefs catching as Danny tried to push them down. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll give you what you need, don’t worry. S’been a month, though. You gonna be okay?”

            Danny tweaked one of Luke’s nipples, then rolled it between thumb and forefinger. Luke shuddered. “Might take a little work, but… um… yeah. More than okay. I trust you.”

            And that was what it all came down to, wasn’t it? They’d always trusted each other—implicitly, instinctually—even when the rest of the world was turned against them. This new turn in their relationship was just another extension of that trust. Luke leaned in for a kiss, enjoying the broad, calloused palm that wrapped itself around the back of his neck. Enjoying the way that Danny went totally boneless, head falling back to thunk against the door.

            “Don’t you worry, baby,” Luke grinned. “I am gonna take _such_ good care of you.”

 

 

            Luke dropped Danny gracelessly onto the bed; Rand landed with a grunt and a little bounce against the mattress, before crab-walking himself back against the headboard, kicking off his pants as he went. Luke climbed into bed, bracketing Danny with his forearms.

            He plucked at Danny’s clean white boxer-briefs, at the undershirt that was rucked up around Danny’s chest, the unbuttoned Oxford that hung loosely from his shoulders. “They give you any trouble?” he asked. “Proclus?”

            Danny smirked. “I didn’t have to break out the Fist, if that’s what you mean. I still want you to come with me next time. You’d like Hong Kong. The food’s fucking phenomenal.”

            “And we both know how you can eat.” Luke dragged his palm down Danny’s belly; contrary to the man’s appetite, Danny’s stomach was springy with muscle, cut like he’d been carved from stone. Luke’s hands could almost meet around the middle, thumbs barely brushing each other if he held Danny by the waist.

            “Somebody’s gotta hold down the fort, but… I’ll think about it.”

            “Think about it while you’re taking these off.” Danny hooked a toe into the waistband of Luke’s underwear, tugging it up over Luke’s cock and down his thighs.

            Luke cocked an eyebrow. “What’d I say about gettin’ handsy?”

            “Hands-free.” Danny waggled his fingers. “I’m just talented like that.” His face was a picture of puppyish mock-innocence; it contrasted sharply with the sudden pressure of his foot against Luke’s dick. Danny rubbed and pushed, a little inexpert, but _still_ … Luke sucked in a breath.

            “Sweet mother _fucking_ Christmas, you dirty little—“ Luke kicked his underwear off, hurriedly, before lunging down to kiss Danny Rand into the mattress. Danny’s hands scrabbled at Luke’s shoulders for a moment, searching for a grip as he bucked up against Luke’s mouth. Luke broke the kiss just long enough to grab Danny by the wrists, pinning them at either side of Rand’s head before ducking down for more.

            When Luke pulled back, kiss breaking wetly, he leaned his full body weight onto Danny’s wrists. Danny watched him, grinning; he wriggled a little, testing Luke’s hold. He could break it if he wanted to, Luke knew, but Danny seemed perfectly content where he was.

            Luke loomed playfully, bracketing their hips together and grinding down. His naked length was wet and slippery against Danny’s tight, white shorts, his bulk forcing Danny to splay his thighs wide, butterflied out in accommodation. This time it was Rand’s turn to suck in a breath. Danny bit his lip, exhaling slow and shaky.

            “…fuck, _Luke_. C’mon.”

            “C’mon and _what_?” Luke teased. He squeezed Danny’s wrists in warning. “Don’t move, you hear me? You get yourself a nice, big fistful of sheet and just stay put.”

            Danny nodded hurriedly, and Luke let go. He waited a moment, just to see what Danny would do, and then slid his hand past the waistband of Danny’s shorts. Danny groaned when Luke’s hand closed around him, dry and tight. “You touch yourself while you were gone?” Luke asked. He leaned close, the question just a puff of breath in Danny’s ear.

            “Nope.” Danny shook his head, swallowing hard. It was the truth, too: as much as he might enjoy sex with a partner, Danny almost _never_ touched himself. When another man might jerk off in the shower, Danny meditated, funneling that urge back into the smoldering core of his own energy.

            Luke harrumphed. “You weird-ass motherfucker… no wonder you’re impatient.”

            He reached over to rummage blindly in the nightstand, rattling around until he found the lube. Luke popped the cap and pulled his hand out of Danny’s pants. Truth be told, he liked the way Rand looked in a nice pair of underwear: athletic lycra shorts that hugged the man’s muscular ass, low-cut and skimming the tops of his thighs. Luke wasn’t going to take those off until he _had_ to.

            He squirted a generous dollop of lube over his fingers, then reached between Danny’s legs to pull his shorts to the side, exposing a sweet pink pucker. Luke circled his thumb around the rim. “You shaved.”

            “Waxed.” Danny’s arms twitched, but he didn’t move. He just gripped the sheets a little harder. “I said I didn’t touch myself, not that I wasn’t… y’know… looking forward to this.”

            “Well, I am flattered,” Luke rumbled, pushing the flat of his thumb against the hole. Danny laughed, breathlessly.

            “Can I move? Please?”

            “Nuh-uh. Not just yet.” Luke kept stroking firm circles with his thumb, not actually pushing in, just massaging the rim as it relaxed. He ran his other hand up Danny’s chest, snagging on a nipple, coming to rest loosely around Danny’s throat. When he felt all of the tension bleed out of Danny’s chest, _then_ Luke pressed one fingertip inside. Danny sighed contentedly.

            “That what you wanted?”

            “Yes, _please_.”

            “C’mere. Gimme your knee.”

            “Oh, so _now_ I can move?”

            “Don’t sass me,” Luke grinned. He took his hand from Danny’s throat and wrapped it around the soft crook of the man’s knee, pretzeling him back until Danny’s leg was hooked up around Luke’s shoulder. “I’m trying to do you a favor, but you gotta…” his finger pressed deeper, massaging soothing circles, “…you gotta make everything so damn hard.”

            Danny laughed again, muscles rippling around Luke’s hand. “Oh, my god. Luke… what the hell, man? _Phrasing._ ”

            Luke rolled his eyes, and thrust his finger up hard; Danny sucked in a sharp gasp. “Let’s see you do better, smart guy.”

            “Nope. No, never mind, you’re doin’ great.” Danny’s leg tightened around Luke’s shoulders, trying to pull him closer. “Don’t stop.”

            “Wouldn’t dream of it, sweet thing.” Luke worked a second finger in alongside the first, going slow from nail to knuckle. Thing was, Luke could do this all night: opening Danny like a complicated safe, watching him flush prettily pink… getting one of the deadliest men in the world so worked up that he begged. Danny was halfway there already, Luke could tell. That was the one upside to these business trips: Luke didn’t like when Danny was gone for weeks on end, but _jesus_ … Danny was so _ready_ by the time that he got home. Luke wasn’t complaining.

             Luke licked his lips, his own cock bobbing stickily against his stomach. He slid his hand down Danny’s leg, turning his head to kiss the man’s knobby knee. He kept mouthing at Danny’s leg, working as far up the calf and as far down the thigh as he could get, before he slid his eyes toward Danny and said, “touch yourself.”

            “Mother-May-I?” Danny smirked, but his breath stuttered in his throat.

            “You better before I change my mind.”

            Again, Danny laughed a little, but the important thing was that he _listened_ : finally letting go of the sheet to reach down toward his own cock. When he got there, though, he grabbed Luke’s wrist and pushed—just once—forcing Luke’s fingers deeper. Danny groaned and Luke—generously—didn’t say anything. Danny let go of Luke’s wrist and touched himself: feather-light strokes, running his nails along his length until he shivered.

            “You got the weirdest way of jerkin’ off,” Luke mused, fondly. He twisted his hand and began to add another finger. Three wasn’t actually excessive: Luke was a big guy. He hadn’t been playing when he asked if Danny would be okay, bottoming after a month’s inactivity. Luke crooked his fingers, searching for Danny’s prostate. When Rand all-out _whimpered_ —biting his lip and finally fisting his cock so hard it must’ve _hurt_ —Luke knew he’d found it.

            Danny had practically arched up off the bed; Luke licked a long swathe up the man’s leg, fingers pressing that button over, and over, and over again. “You are _so_ sweet, baby boy,” he murmured. “You look so fucking good, you got no clue.”

            “ _Luke_ ,” Danny groaned. The plea came out half-strangled. “C’mon. C’mon, _please_. I _missed_ you, god _fucking_ dammit…”

            “I know you did. Missed you too, baby.” Luke withdrew his hand, and reached for the lube again. “You ready?”

            “Jesus _Christ,_ are you _kidding_?”

            Luke chuckled, and spread a healthy helping of lube along his cock. “Just makin’ sure.”

            Danny was nothing if not an active participant; while Luke was slicking up, he wriggled out of his underwear. He kicked it thoughtlessly to the floor before hooking one leg back up over Luke’s shoulder and wrapping the other around Luke’s waist. Danny leaned back on his elbows, pulling Luke toward him by the strength of his thighs alone.

            Luke didn’t mind. He wrapped one enormous hand around the back of Danny’s head, tangling in messy blonde hair. “…my baby boy…” he rumbled, and leaned in for a kiss.

            Luke pushed Danny back into the mattress, lining himself up. His cock slid between the cleft of Danny’s thighs, leaving a shiny snail-trail of lube, until Luke grabbed it in his free hand. The head caught, momentarily, on the pink rim of Danny’s hole, and then Luke pushed himself inside.

            Danny hissed a breath in through his nose, arms wrapping themselves around Luke’s shoulders. Luke felt Danny’s breath on his neck. “You okay?”

            “S’just… _fuck_ , man.   You’re pretty big, and that’s… that’s an understatement.”

            “Mm-hm. Flattery will get you everywhere.” Luke took it slow, though. He rocked his hips in centimeter increments, letting Danny’s own body pull him inside. “You’re _so_ tight… tell me if I need to stop. I will, alright?”

            Danny shook his head fitfully. “You stop, and I’m gonna kick your ass from here to Broadway.”

            Luke laughed, deep down in his throat, and Danny laughed with him. That was good: as laughter bubbled in his throat, Danny relaxed. He gripped Luke a little tighter, a little closer, and drew him in.

            Eventually, Luke found himself seated hip-to-hip with Danny Rand. “Made it,” he murmured, shifting gingerly.

            “Fuckin’ _knew_ we’d get there.” Danny held up one hand for a high-five. Luke just stared at it, uncomprehendingly. “Hey,” Danny protested, “don’t leave a brother hanging.”

            “Are you serious?”

            “As a heart attack,” Danny insisted. He was adjusting slowly, squeezing his own internal muscles in rhythmic pulses. Luke could feel the man contracting around him, milking him, and fought to maintain focus.

            Luke shook his head. “Teamwork,” he said, and high-fived Danny with a smack.

            “You gonna move?”

            “When I’m good and ready,” Luke said, punctuated by a roll of his hips. Danny groaned. “Yeah, that’s more like it. Gonna fuck the sass right oughtta you.”

            Luke moved again—and again—in slow, sensual undulations that rocked them together: his cock splitting Danny like an axe in a log, Danny’s own cock trapped tight against Luke’s stomach.

            Danny grabbed at the sheets again as Luke bent him back—Rand could bend _impossibly_ far, pretzeled over on himself as Luke fucked into him. He bared his throat, blonde head tossed back against the mattress, gasping. “…please, please, please, _fuck_ , Luke…”

            “That’s it… that’s it, sweet thing…” Luke’s stomach clenched and relaxed: smooth, internal thrusts that would’ve been barely visible to an outside observer but which were, to Danny, like a rollercoaster.

            Luke reached between them, and rubbed his thumb along the head of Danny’s cock. He draped himself over Danny like a quilt, sucking on Rand’s earlobe, on the pulse-point of his neck. Danny turned his head to meet Luke in a sloppy kiss.

            That was the beginning of the end, really. Luke kissed back, open-mouthed, and grabbed Danny by both thighs. He bent the man’s knees up to his chest and ground down. Luke snapped his hips, fucking Danny harder and deeper, until the bed slammed back against the wall and Danny fucking _wailed_ with the force of it.

            Luke could feel sweat beading on his brow. He couldn’t control himself, moving faster— _faster_ —sensations bleeding into each other until the world had narrowed to a pinprick: hot flesh wrapped tight around his cock and soft beneath his hands and wet under his mouth. Luke squeezed his eyes shut tight, panting open-mouthed into Danny’s kiss as he came.

            “…fuck…” Luke shuddered.   “Oh, fuck.” He pulled out. “Are you okay?”

            “…do not… fucking… ask me that… again…” Danny panted. He was still hard, though. Luke reached down between them and gave a good squeeze. Danny keened. “…little sensitive. Be nice.”

            “Oh, I’ll be nice. I’m gonna be so nice to you that you’ll wonder who replaced me while you were gone.” Luke’s heart was still hammering in his chest, but he scooted down the bed, positioning himself between Danny’s thighs. He bent his mouth to Danny’s dick and kissed the tip. “Feel me?”

            “Ooh, I do. I really do. I’m gonna owe you dinner.”

            “Yeah, you will.” Danny was boneless beneath Luke’s hands—thighs splayed and chest heaving—but his cock was hard, slippery with pre-come. Luke swirled his tongue around the head, then swallowed it whole. Danny groaned.

            His hand came up to rest on Luke’s shaven scalp, petting him like a cat as Luke sucked him down. Danny’s hips thrust in short, arrhythmic stutters, but Luke held him still.

            He liked _giving_ head almost as much as he liked receiving it: he liked the salty-sour-mushroom taste of it, he liked the weight against his tongue, he liked the tiny jerks of Danny’s abdominal muscles underneath his palm.

            Danny’s hands tightened around Luke’s head as he came. He thrust up into Luke’s mouth, spurting—one, two, three—jets of spend against the back of Luke’s throat. Luke swallowed and pulled off, licking his own mouth. “So,” he said, grinning.

            “So,” Danny agreed breathlessly. “Thai food?”

            Luke crawled back up Danny’s body, then collapsed to the bed beside him. He pulled Danny back against his chest. “You know me. Easy to please.”

            Danny burrowed beneath Luke’s arm, tucking his head under Luke’s chin. They just lay there for a while, sweat sticking them together as their heart-rates slowed.

            “I left my cell-phone in my pants,” Danny finally said, brow crinkling.

            “Huh. Guess _one_ of us is gonna have to suck it up and move.”

            “…dammit,” Danny groused. Luke’s chuckle vibrated through their chests.

 

 

*** 

 

            Luke heard the alarm chirping long before he actually woke, echoing incongruously down the corridors of his dreams.

            “…turn that damn thing off…” he groaned, half-conscious, and threw a pillow in Danny’s general direction. He heard Danny’s grunt when it connected, then the ‘flump’ of the return volley when Danny threw the pillow back. It hit Luke in the back of the head.

            “Come work out with me,” Danny whispered.

            Luke just squeezed his eyes shut tighter. “S’too fucking early. Get outta my _face_ , Rand.”

            Luke felt the quick peck of Danny’s lips at his temple. “Your loss,” Danny shrugged, and then the mattress shifted as he bounced out of bed.

            “…hrrm…” Luke disagreed incomprehensibly, already sinking back to sleep.

 

            Sunrise was seeping through the window when Luke woke properly, rose-gold light that spread slow across the sheets. Luke rolled into the shaft of sunlight like a cat. He lay dozingly spread-eagle for a few more minutes, listening to the soft sounds from the next room over: Danny’s bare feet and measured breathing as he paced through his warm-up katas.

            Luke preferred to wake at a _respectable_ hour: none of this ‘pre-dawn’ bullshit. Mornings like this, though—mornings when he’d stand at the mouth of the hall, leaning against the doorjamb and just _watching_ —bloomed a warmth in Luke’s belly. The living room was half-illuminated, honey-colored light creeping across the floor; dust-motes floated in and out of the sunlight, in and out of visibility.

            Danny stood poised on the ball of one foot, still as a statue. Luke watched the slight shift of the man’s back; Danny’s oversized sleep-pants were slung low on his hips, elastic riding the curve of an ass that was firm and pert as an unripe plum.

            “Since when do I have a yoga mat?” Luke asked, his voice still rough with sleep.

            Danny answered without turning around. “Since I slipped getting into taraksvasana last week. What do you do, _wax_ these floors?”

            Luke grunted an acknowledgement and turned toward the kitchen. “You want coffee?”

            “Tea. And pancakes?”

            “This isn’t a hotel. You want pancakes,” Luke said, “you’re gonna have to order out.”

            Luke made pancakes anyway.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll consider this an AU for two obvious reasons. 1: Luke and Danny are an established thing and, 2: Danny never dismantled Rand Corp. 
> 
> Unfortunately, I fell in love with this pairing long before I fell in love with Jess Jones, so they remain a regular rotation in the blind-fantasy-fulfillment portion of my brain.


End file.
